Milk Today
Chapter One
2029
I wince at the way Bernadette speaks to the boy. She’s
brusque with him – dismissive of his efforts – where I would, at this point, be
offering him encouragement along these lines:
‘That was a good shot, Sam! BUT… I know, working together
on this, we can squeeze a little more out of you, huh?’
After all, their short-term interests are aligned.
Bernadette needs Sam to produce in quantity, earning her bragging rights,
whilst Sam wants to produce – really, he does – to end his shift for
today, at least. This suggests that finding harmony would be the best approach,
rather than belittling the boy.
But we all have our unique management styles: Bernadette’s
is not mine; this is her facility, and I will bite my tongue as a polite house
guest should.
Sam looks beaten, though. It’s been a long afternoon, with
four cycles completed and now the bitch is going to extract a
fifth, working him until dinner time in this basement from hell. He’s sore, and
unsure what more he can give from his rigid chair.
The big risk, for Sam – and he understands it very well – is
that diminishing returns set-in. That can’t be allowed to happen, because it
would upset Bernadette very much and poison their interactions still further.
I fancy a turn at coaching Sam, and I’m arrogant enough to
suppose I could improve his output, which is all that matters. I’m sure
Bernadette trusts me well enough to leave me unsupervised with her boy, so I’ll
ask her.
***
Sam’s dick shaft puts him in the top 2% of male size,
whether length or girth is your preferred measure. He’s a strong ‘grower’, but
even when flaccid that uncut meat slab has an outstanding profile, trunk-like
between his big thighs.
No doubt the 26-year-old would wish for his other qualities
to be considered, before lewd talk of his penile dimensions. There is much else
to admire of Sam’s body and soul, but his schlong will always be the boy’s
stand-out feature, dominating the gossip.
That prick is fed by a balloon of a nut sac, hanging heavy
and low as a natural state. His jewels are twin rocks, with the heft of
marbles.
Coming well-equipped was an advantage, but not enough. More
important to Bernadette was acquiring a boy with a deep well of cum, able to
empty it efficiently and then replenish it fast, ready to go again. Sam
meets all her criteria and that’s why he’s in the chair, again, through the
second half of his day, following his morning routine of gym work which is,
itself, designed to be punishing of the muscles.
Physiologically, Sam is an exceptional specimen, but there’s
no awe in the way Bernadette treats him: he’s here to better himself, over and
over, and to smash ‘records’ of dubious veracity which the lady – an eccentric
type – obsesses over.
She has removed the cylindrical apparatus from the boy’s dick,
temporarily, and tends to his mast using a sponge dampened with warm water that’s
comfortable to the touch – soothing, even.
His pubes having been trimmed close to extinction adds to my
perception of scale, as a visitor leering over a cock that warrants a mumbled
apology-in-advance for any discomfort, before it dives into moist pussy. Not
that bedroom etiquette with girls will feature on Sam’s worry list, any longer.
The process of cleansing Sam’s shaft is a preliminary, to
prime him for the next turbocharged orgasm that Bernadette has insisted he’ll
perform. She dabs and swipes at Sam’s length but particularly his sensitive
cock head, clearing his soggy cum from retracted folds of skin, and cleaning
his crimson glans with gentle taps of her sponge. Tickled, the boy pushes back
in his chair, recoiling.
Bondage, in the form of straps securing his forearms to the
chair, prevents Sam from touching his dick – or anywhere in that vicinity –
throughout the session. He doesn’t get regular access to his boy meat at all,
anymore: Even when freed from the chastity cage he’s locked into during his
‘down time’, by way of rare privilege, Bernadette imposes hand/dick contact
restrictions on Sam, to be managed by way of his willpower and capacity to
self-regulate. The boy finds self-control so tough that he ends-up longing for
the simplicity of his cock cage, again.
When there are lapses of discipline around touch, then
Bernadette punishes Sam. Apart from the stinging pain, it’s degrading for a
youth of 190cm with a quarterback build, to dance to the whiplashes of a girl.
Sam, held in chains, stays stubbornly flaccid when Bernadette works her flogger
and cat over his back.
Sam’s isn’t the prettiest dick, granted. But it’s a
functional hosepipe that must serve him well, if he’s to liberate himself from the
milking chair.
He’s hygienic again, root to crown, so she’s done. The
apparatus, including the outer cylinder of clear glass, is re-secured on Sam’s
sex. There are numerous accessories in the form of tubes, valves and sensors
that link, ultimately, to Bernadette’s laptop computer with the control software
installed. Having learned and adjusted itself through hundreds of hours of
trials, this stimulation system can be left on ‘auto-pilot’ in safety, once the
operator clicks the Start icon.
‘Ten minutes, and your build-up will start again,’
Bernadette tells Sam, matter-of-fact.
‘FUCK you!’ Sam spits at my friend.
***
Having opened by taking a free shot at Bernadette’s manner,
I’m glad to redress the balance by conceding she’s smart.
Neither hardware nor software are her inventions, but their
real-world deployment on a boy is a skill in itself and – in this beta stage of
development – bug fixes had been required.
The scientific application that has gone into this kit is, I
admit, beyond my comprehension. That’s why I’ve travelled to see my old
confidant, to learn more. In theory, the package would make a useful upgrade
for my own facility.
The set-up that Sam is attached to is a potent combination
of old-time mechanical, and cutting-edge, AI-boosted computing. His performance
benefits from machine learning, and sophisticated modelling.
It’s almost a month since Sam first sat for Bernadette and
found himself hooked-up to her big toy. He’s sat almost every day since, with a
handful of unavoidable breaks whilst the programming was taken offline and
coded with significant enhancements.
Bernadette is in competition with two further pioneers – one
American, the other Chinese – to perfect the ultimate milking strategy, capable
of draining a boy Sahara-dry. But their rivalry isn’t about single shots,
because there’s nothing new in that. No, the race is to maximise total
output over a duration agreed between them, currently set at five hours.
The rivals compare notes on the productivity their systems
have achieved. There is some intellectual collaboration in the way these ‘dairy
leaders’ communicate, but – make no mistake – they all want to post the highest
scores, through the medium of their captive milking boys.
In a game where victory may be won on a fine margin, the critical
components of triumph will be (1) using a naturally productive boy and then (2),
optimising his output with relentless, systemic improvement.
Sam is the gushing entrant selected for Bernadette’s
competitive debut, and her expectations of her fire hydrant cum source are high.
That first time he was hitched to the apparatus, Sam sat for a one-shot trial,
but life for this heavy cummer has got harder and harder.
Yesterday, Sam expressed an average of 64 units* of cum, per
orgasm, with a session best of 71 units. But it’s early days over this duration
and, as Bernadette has just reminded him, she needs to see more.
* Don’t ask me how
a unit is defined. I’ve told you, I’m not the scientific mastermind of this
story.
***
‘If he crashes and burns it will be your fault, Ryan. I
mean it! I won’t forgive you, if I’m humiliated on the daily data sheet. The
Chinese are already getting some incredible outputs from their boy… but I’m
interrogating their statistics… the squint-eyed cheats!’
Sam is left unattended whilst the programme runs, in normal
circumstances: that’s the purpose of automation. Bernadette has calculated that
her constant presence by his side would detract from Sam’s productivity – and
frankly, with her off-key people skills, I think she’s made the right call on
that one.
I’ve made my suggestion – okay, my request – that I stay in
the room with Sam over his next cycle and, as you can see, Bernadette is
sceptical. The lady has more affinity with machines than humans – you know the
sort? But we go back 17 years; she has begrudging admiration for what I’ve
built at my facility, and she is – to her credit – open to experimenting with what
works, if it drives the numbers in the right direction.
So, I have permission to remain, with Bernadette’s warning
duly noted, and I know to take her seriously. It wouldn’t be the first time
we’d fallen-out, over our contrasting approaches to some nuance of hardcore
BDSM practice. I have my orders.
As she closes the door behind her and retreats to the
comfort-zone of her laptop computer, in a control room no bigger than a closet,
the boy’s fifth cycle has already started in the gentlest way.
Light suction drags at Sam’s dick, with a purpose (for now)
of encouraging it to move-on from that underwhelming eruption of 20 minutes
ago, and to consider the possibility of fresh stimulation. He’s totally flaccid
and unmoved by this teasing as it begins, which is to be expected, but his
rejuvenation needs to start soon if his non-productive time between orgasms is
to be cut back, as it must be.
‘Actually, who the fuck are you?’ Sam asks me because, true
to form, Bernadette didn’t think to introduce us whilst we were all together.
‘Oh, I’m Ryan,’ I say. ‘My experience is in helping boys to
smash their targets. And it’s great to meet you!’
***
‘Fuck off… watching me,’ says Sam.
That’s all I’m doing, in the foothills of Sam’s cycle –
watching, and learning. But I’ve positioned myself behind his chair, and my
arms-crossed lurking out of his sightline has irked Sam. Used to being alone in
here, a voyeur is unwelcome.
I’ve been appreciating the apparatus to which Sam is
attached, applying my brain to the ways in which Bernadette has prepped the
boy, for pleasure as work.
What’s unseen is the probe lodged in Sam’s ass, but I know
it’s up there, ready to vibrate and send electrical pulses, but also to gather
data on what’s happening with Sam’s prostate. Every statistic helps build a
picture, driving follow-up action. I don’t know how big that plug is, and it’s
rude to ask, so early in our acquaintance.
I don’t respond to Sam’s invective, and he quietens.
I’ve also been appreciating him, impaled on his prong
and tied in his bondage. He’s a real unit of a young man, and were he to become
surplus to Bernadette’s requirements, I’m sure I could find him an impossible
role at my place. But I won’t poach talent too blatantly.
Bernadette’s selection makes sense, because there’s a need
for the highest levels of stamina to sustain multiple empty-the-well orgasms,
back-to-back, day after gruelling day. Sam is/was a globetrotting fitness
influencer, with a good income from easy work as an online PT. The highlights
of an imposing package include the legs: long limbs, with a light coat of hair
from thighs to calves, gym trained to a muscular structure that shouts of
power, and authority. Those legs are kept spread, secured by cuffs to the front
uprights of the chair.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’ I ask.
There’s another chair in the room; this one a basic plastic
bucket seat on a metal frame, resembling a 1980s high school relic, left for
those who need (or want) to stay with the boy. I let it drag across the floor with
chalk-on-blackboard squealing.
‘Do whatever you like – I don’t give a shit,’ Sam says,
noting I’m on the move anyway.
I settle two metres in front of the boy, offset to his right
and facing him. I cross my legs, making myself as comfortable as possible on
the seat base, and fidget with my fingers. I glance to him and he glances at
me, without any staring from either chair.
The machine continues to work on Sam’s horse schlong, tending
it in near silence and with no apparent effect, so far. It’s a multi-function
contraption that can jerk and suction and abuse with friction, tenderly or
roughly, in short bursts or long hauls.
Sam has a sculpted
jawline of straights and angles, but it sits beneath a face that’s eerily
expressionless. I wonder whether Bernadette has sapped the zest from him or,
alternatively, whether he was always an inscrutable one. As the device
masturbates Sam, you wouldn’t know anything was occurring from his face of stony
features.
‘How will you spend your first day, when you’re free of this
shit?’ I ask him.
I can see it’s not a question Sam was expecting from me, and
therefore not one for which he has a rehearsed answer.
The boy makes a laughing noise without moving his lips. It
is, on reflection, a ridiculous proposition.
‘I’ve stopped thinking about getting out and going home,’ he
says. ‘Unless… you’re here to release me?’
At which point, he looks to me with big brown eyes, hoping.
‘I don’t have control of you,’ I say, rapid with my
expectation management.
He sighs. ‘Okay… fucking useless, then.’
‘But you would like to leave here, though?’ I ask.
‘Or, has the bitch taken you beyond the point of no return?’
Now, a look of surprise crosses Sam’s face. ‘What the fuck
do you mean?’ he asks.
‘I thought it was obvious? I mean, does your imagination –
your horizon – extend beyond days of milking, anymore? Or has this equipment… your
work… become all-consuming?’
‘Fuck, no!’ he’s quick to hit back. ‘I wanna go, of course!
What the fuck are you on about… all-consuming?’
As this testy exchange concludes, the computer programme
steps-up a gear – only one, mind you, not a shift from 1st to 5th
– and the boy forgets about me for a moment as an enhanced level of vigour
takes hold of the pumping on his shaft. He knows each increment is coming, of
course, but the changes remain prone to causing a gasp.
Battling the constraints of his bondage, Sam wiggles at his
tucked hips, wincing just a little though he’s soon over it. I can hear more
activity, now – a series of deflating sighs, hisses and electronic clicks, from
the equipment manipulating his penis.
‘So – your first day of freedom,’ I say, returning to my
question. ‘What does it look like?’
‘Jeez… I suppose I have dreamt of that. A long walk on a
beach, or the countryside, in sunshine and with a breeze through my hair. A
cheat day of crap food… sugary and processed… the stuff I’m not allowed here!
Maybe a game of padel, with a mate. But mostly to see my family again… and my
girlfriend!’
I make a sweet smile. ‘Nice – and very wholesome. See, that
wasn’t so hard!’
‘Just a fuckin’ dream, though,’ he says, bringing himself
straight back down to earth.
‘Maybe. Maybe not,’ I say.
‘Nah… forget it,’ he says.
‘What’s your girlfriend called?’ I ask.
‘Charlotte,’ he says, and I watch despair fill his eyes, as
he recites the name of his love interest. It makes me hard.
‘Cute name,’ I say. ‘Quite…’
‘Posh?’ Sam suggests, forcing a little smile as he reads my
mind. ‘It’s okay, and basically true. She’s a top classical musician.’
‘Strings?’ I guess.
‘No, clarinet.’
I leave a silence – a
moment for his melancholy – before speaking again.
‘Does it hurt?’ I ask him.
Sam gives me a contemptuous glare like I’m stupid, as well
as interfering. ‘Being apart from my family? Not even allowed to let them know
that I’m alive… of course it hurt…’
‘No,’ I cut across the boy, with a slicing hand gesture. ‘I
meant – is this machinery hurting you, physically?’
‘Ah, right,’ he says, catching-up, with sadness in his tone
over how quickly I moved on from my supposed interest in Charlotte. ‘Umm… yeah…
I mean, it’s not agony… not quite, anyway… but the pain does build, over time.’
‘Understood,’ I say. ‘And how many times have you shot a
load this afternoon, already?’
I detect counting going-on as his pouty lips form numbers,
on mute.
‘Four times.’
‘So you’re building towards your fifth orgasm of the session?’
I check.
‘Yeah.’
‘Hmm, that’s either bliss, or cruel, depending how you feel
about it?’
‘Oh fuck, it’s cruel!’ Sam says, free of doubt.
‘Because….?’ I ask.
‘Because the amount of milk – and I mean cum, but she calls
it milk, right? – that she expects from me is absolutely insane. And the
sessions get longer, all the time… they go on and on, with no fuckin’ hope!’
‘Right,’ I say. ‘But have you actually managed to produce
more milk, through all these sessions? Or have they been a waste of time? Let
me call it milk, as well, to stay consistent with your language!’
‘I dunno,’ he prevaricates. ‘I am making more in total,
right? But she expects more, each cycle, so it’s like I’m always behind her
expectations… or that’s what it feels like.’
‘Grim!’ I say, straining for my sympathetic tone. ‘You know,
it’s not my place to say stuff like this, but fuck it… I will. I think
Charlotte would be proud of you and the way you’re grinding on, through this tough
shit.’
I don’t believe he’s buying my good cop routine, so I
don’t receive thanks, but Sam looks contemplative and I sense this isn’t the
sort of conversation he’s had with the tunnel-vision numbers ogre, Bernadette.
‘Anyway, I hope – sincerely, Sam – that climax number five
will close the book on this afternoon, for you, because it seems crazy to keep
going. You must be shattered, apart from anything else.’
‘I don’t know,’ he shrugs, sounding at rock bottom with his
morale. ‘She’s always vague about how long she’ll keep me on the machines. It’s
maddening, so it’s best to think the worst about each session.’
I tut, so the boy hears me well. ‘Crazy!’ I say. ‘Like, how
can it be conducive to productivity when you don’t even know your volume target
for each session, and the goalposts keep changing?’
‘Right,’ he agrees, sullen.
‘Still. All you can do is produce an exceptional output of
milk, this time, with a positive mindset that this will be your last udder
load of today. Shoot that jizz out of the park, and challenge her to find a
reason to make you go again, when there just isn’t one.’
‘Bro, she doesn’t need a reason! Never has done,’ Sam says.
‘Sure… but try it for me, hey? Yield a massive number that
embarrasses her, right?’
The boy laughs. ‘Man, it’s the machines doing the milking.
What the fuck influence do you think I have!?’
I have an understanding look for Sam, I hope, but the
context is a fundamental disagreement:
‘Ah, the machines are just your tools, Sam. Success is built
in your mind: 70% of this is on you, alone.’
‘Oh, fuck off!’ he says, raising his voice.
‘You’re angry and frustrated, I get it,’ I say. ‘It’s none
of my business, I suppose, but I want you to consider your accountability for
bringing this to a close, right?’
‘Man…’ he says, eye-rolling and shaking his head laterally
to the limits of its travel within his neck bondage.
On Sam’s dick the apparatus has, again, stepped-up the
intensity. The piston and its associated components are stroking him; tugging
him. The sequence of gentle pump-priming moves is over, with the equipment now demanding
of Sam his stimulation.
‘I despise her, truly,’ Sam says. ‘I don’t give a fuck
whether she’s listening to us, from her hideout – I hate her, right? Stupid
tranny looks nothing like a woman! She’s six foot, yeah? No way would she ever
pass as a girl. It’s truly pathetic!’
Sam unloads the keenly-felt transphobia he’s not had a
listener for, until I rocked-up. I give him a stern look, icy cold, because
Bernadette is my friend and I condemn the sort of bigotry and language this
privileged cis boy has just spouted.
‘That’s disappointing, Sam,’ I say.
‘It’s fucking true, though!’ he protests.
Sitting with the boy, it’s hasn’t taken long to uncover the
toxicity at the heart of this working relationship. No wonder the Chinese are
reporting superior numbers from their dairy!
‘It’s a nasty thing for you to say, but anyway, it’s a bad
distraction for you. Time to focus on your milk numbers, and to take them
seriously,’ I warn him.
***
So often, the bullied become the bully.
Young Bernard struggled to cultivate friendships, what with
the grating monotony of his voice; the niche interests he talked about at
length; his hopelessness with all athletic pursuits, and being a gay teen – two
decades before that was so cool. Other queer boys shunned poor Bernard
but they weren’t actively hostile, unlike the jocks.
He was 29 when we made first contact, and already wearing
spectacles, the lenses of which were flecked with the dry skin he scratched
from his forehead – just one of Bernard’s anxious tics. His curly hair grew big
and unkempt, and this too looked dry from the stress he felt in existing as
him.
I had no sexual or romantic interest in Bernard – still
don’t! – but in his fantasies of pain for boys, always richly detailed, I found
an unexpected sense of engagement that kept me coming back to BlackBerry
Messenger, to check if Bernard had unbundled another of his fiendish schemes of
revenge on male youth, for my erotic interest. This being around the time I turned
dreams into reality with my first BDSM facility, Bernard followed my planning
eagerly, as well.
Long story, cut short: Bernard, like me, became one of those
rare men who doesn’t just talk of their darkest desires, but implements them.
Eight years ago, he transitioned to Bernadette. Sam’s
withering assessment – too tall, bad wig, doesn’t ‘pass’ – is accurate enough,
but I wouldn’t jeopardise our friendship by giving an honest opinion to her
face. Anyway, what matters is her happiness and self-acceptance, not my judgment.
She’s calmer, now, in her settled gender, with money in the bank from an
entrepreneurial career in IT, and ownership of a bird observatory on Shetland
and an historic London bus – I told you her interests were niche.
BUT – the sexual rejection Bernard experienced as a young
man, Bernadette continues to experience as a middle-aged woman, and that hurts.
As the years of hurt accumulate, so does the cruelty of her programmes to work
boys, to conquer them, and to finish them.
It’s a nightmare for Sam, sat impaled on the mechanised
jerk-off chair, day after day as Bernadette’s scapegoat for all those times she
was laughed at, or left-out. Now, his temper has become poorly controlled, and
I see a disintegration of ambition in what should be a record-breaking
environment.
For my friend, I want to get this kid back on track.
***
‘Will you tell me the size of the plug, in your ass?’ I ask
him, nicely.
Sam huffs. ‘Get lost. I’m not feeding your fantasies.’
I anticipated such a reaction from a straight boy feeling
the pressure. He hates being cunt-stuffed and it’s humiliating, still, getting
wedged up there. Still, it was worth testing Sam’s receptiveness to the
question, interested – as I always am! – to know the scale of a boy’s anal
challenge.
‘A long, veined dildo; or a short, fat, bulb-like plug?’ I
persist.
‘I told you… I’m not giving you easy material for a wank.
You’re such a loser!’
From the boy’s defensiveness – such a strong reluctance to
divulge – I deduce he’s impaled on a toy of substantial dimensions, though this
isn’t an ass-centric engagement. Too bad I arrived after Bernadette had
Sam sit for the afternoon.
‘It aches?’ I ask, trying a blunt approach.
Sam says nothing, this time, but he flashes me a fiery look
before evading me again. It was the opposite of a denial, that red hot glance,
and I become certain he’s stretched-out in his asshole: not to a freakish
extent, pushing girth to its absolute limits, but constantly painful after so
many hours on the chair.
‘Not for much longer, hey?’ I say, looking to rally him.
‘Right…’ Sam drawls, sarcastic.
I am, to be honest, peeved at the kid’s rudeness towards me.
Sam is in no position to piss me off, though I recognise this session is
uncomfortable for him. If he’s bored with my conversation, then it’s time to
move the process along as his schedule suggests. I get up from my chair.
‘Okay… back into the helmet and glasses you go then, Sam.
The indicators are telling me that you’re ready for this.’
And now the boy is agitated; his eyes following me as I
retrieve the equipment from a shelving unit.
‘Hopefully, I’ll get this right. Bernadette said it was
simple and foolproof to set-up, but maybe she hasn’t reckoned on the clumsiness
of this particular fool!’ I say, though my light-heartedness doesn’t amuse him.
‘Sir… I think it’s too early for me to go back into immersive
mode. I can barely feel my dick after that last shoot!’ he says, addressing
me with respect for the first time, now he wants something.
I pause in front of him, strapped-down and distressed on his
seat.
‘I get you – really, I do,’ I say. ‘It feels too soon for
you, as it always does, I guess? But I’m working to the instructions left for
me, and we have to keep you productive. So, your orgasmic cycles need to be
sharp, not lazy, yes? You know this by now, Sam.’
‘Fucking hell,’ the boy groans, with a resigned tone.
I appraise the Tesla Fantasia headgear*, making sure
I know front from back, though it resembles a bicycle helmet so it’s not difficult.
Inside the bowl where Sam’s head will fit is a domed network of sensors and
circuitry, miniaturised in profile to a quite remarkable extent.
* A
diversification, after the driverless car initiative hit some obstacles.
Specifically, the obstacles it hit were seven seniors crossing the road outside
the Abundant Grace retirement home. Still, as the defense attorney said in
court, they weren’t looking where they were going – and two of them survived,
anyway!
The boy has been shaved bald in squares of 5cm just above
his ears, on both sides of the skull, spoiling an otherwise neat head of hair
in dark brown. Without the services of a barber, the haircut has grown-out in
volume and density such that Sam now wears the style of a leading man in 1950s
Hollywood: safe and conservative, but too old-fashioned to look timeless.
The shaving was a technical necessity because the
hypothalamus – the part of the brain regulating sexual arousal – is located
deep in the core, adjacent to the stem. Powerful though the Fantasia helmet
is, the accuracy of measuring electrical activity at this depth is improved by
eliminating the signal suppression effect of hair.
In positioning the helmet, nice and snug, care must be taken
to align the hypothalamus sensor banks with Sam’s bald squares. Under his chin,
a strap is buckled to keep the headwear lodged securely, should the kid thrash
with the unit in operation – and he will.
Handling the 3D/4K glasses which pair with Sam’s helmet as a
set, a thought occurs to me. There’s an aspect of the stimulatory process I’d
not discussed with Bernadette, and now it’s spurred my curiosity, I need an
answer.
‘Sam… about the content you’re shown, through the glasses.
Is your girlfriend one of the models? Have they put Charlotte into hardcore
porn, Sam?’
I assume he’ll clam-up on me again because this, more than
anything, is personal. In fact, he’s keen to tell me.
‘Oh yeah,’ Sam says. ‘She’s in it, quite often.’
‘Well, I’m sorry about that,’ I say.
‘Yeah?’
‘Yes. That’s a low trick for Bernadette to pull. What a
fucking bitch! What a cow.’
‘It’s the meanest thing,’ Sam agrees.
Still, it’s time for the boy to plunge into his immersive
experience, once again, and I hook the eyewear over the bridge of his nose.
This is a chunky piece of kit, in black, strapped over Sam’s helmet to the back
of his skull.
The goggles are blanked to the front, so there can be no
further eye contact between us whilst he’s watching the porn features to be
streamed into those mini-theatres.
The glasses fit tightly, drawn onto Sam’s face by the
elastic strapping, stretching across his cranium. There will be no light in his
peripheral vision to distract him, and Sam will see nothing but his
personalised selection of programming, until he milks-up.
The cylinder continues its stealthy work on Sam’s prick,
forcing him into a plump state of readiness with its suctioning and stroking
and teasing.
I’m by his side, now, and whilst Sam can no longer see me,
he can hear me. There’s no need to raise my voice.
‘For your sake, let’s try and make this your final cycle
today, huh?’
‘I’m always trying for that!’ Sam objects.
‘Maybe…’ I say, sceptical. ’Ready to enjoy some top quality
porn, then?’
‘I have no choice,’ he says.
‘Good lad.’
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